Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  “Let me talk this over with Zarsha first,” she said, for though Zarsha had little left to lose in Nandel, he did have a brother who lived there and might be in the line of fire if the succession came into question. But it would certainly be nice to let go of the secret. She could bring Elwynne and Leethan and Jaizal to stay at the palace as her guests, rather than hiding them away.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Semsulin said, bowing.

  Ellin was surprised to find a hint of a smile on her face as she envisioned bringing Elwynne to the palace. She did not think of herself as a particularly motherly sort, and she was certain she was not yet ready to have children of her own. Just the thought was enough to cause a flutter of apprehension, and she was continually thankful that the Blessing meant she would not have one until she was ready. But the idea of becoming Elwynne’s make-believe stepmother was not unappealing—especially when she thought of how happy it would make Zarsha.

  * * *

  —

  Leethan locked her bedroom door with a stab of guilt. Jaizal had seen her through so many visions over the time they’d known each other, and Leethan had always taken comfort in her friend’s presence as the seer’s poison ravaged her body. But this time, she knew, Jaizal would ask too many questions that Leethan was not prepared to answer. It was best for all involved if Leethan suffered in private.

  Jaizal insisted that Leethan should not read too much into the fact that the very night she told Prince Zarsha about her dream, it had stopped coming to her.

  “It just means that you have fulfilled the Mother of All’s wishes,” Jaizal insisted. “She wanted you to report the dream to the queen, and through her to others. You did your duty, and now it is over.”

  But Leethan didn’t think even Jaizal was convinced that was the case. If the dream was indeed sent by the Mother of All—as both Leethan and Jaizal believed—then there had to be a reason that it showed her facing off against Waldmir and sacrificing her life.

  Although the dream made it clear to her that she had a vital role in the war to come, and that she was required to perform a sacrifice—whether literally or only figuratively—she still could not fathom exactly what it was the Mother of All wanted her to do. How could her sacrifice stop Waldmir?

  The only chance she had of figuring out her mission from the Mother of All was to trigger another vision and hope for a clearer message. And so she had quietly arranged for one of the housemaids to take a trip to the Abbey and purchase a seer’s poison for her.

  Making herself as comfortable as possible in her bed, propping pillows all around herself to protect her if she thrashed about, Leethan opened her Mindseye and activated the poison with a mote of Rho. Then, pinching her nose, she bolted it down, shuddering at the taste that was both bitter and cloyingly sweet at the same time. She stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth in hopes it would muffle any screams she could not prevent from escaping.

  The pain was no easier to bear for all her familiarity with it, and she was dimly aware of her body writhing on the bed as her back arched and her heels drummed on the mattress and her teeth clenched convulsively on the handkerchief. She heard a thin keening sound sneaking out from around the cloth, but for the most part it worked to keep her screams contained, and there was no sign that she had roused the household. She wept freely as she waited to be borne away by her vision. Eventually, she was rewarded.

  Out of the blackness that had blinded her when the poison first seeped into her blood, a small light began to glow, growing brighter and larger as she waited patiently. The pain of the poison ebbed, though it did not go away entirely. She had to pause to suck in a few deep breaths to fill her tight lungs before the vision sprang into sharp focus and she recognized her surroundings.

  She was in the throne room of the royal palace in Nandel, a great, cavernous hall that was literally built into the side of a mountain. The austerity of Nandel meant that instead of being sumptuous and elegant, the room was—in the eyes of someone foreign-born such as she—barren and cold and forbidding. Dim luminants shone from unadorned iron chandeliers and iron sconces set into the stone walls and pillars. A narrow rug of silk, woven in shades of gray and black, ran from the entrance of the hall to the dais upon which the throne sat, but it was the only softness visible anywhere. There were no tapestries to warm or brighten the walls, no upholstered chairs or settees. Just the occasional stone bench or hard wooden chair for those visitors too infirm to stand.

  The throne at the top of the dais was as unassuming as the rest of the room, carved of stone with simple lines and only the barest adornment. At the moment, the throne was empty, although the hall itself was packed with the nobility of Nandel, with a row of palace guards in their gray livery standing at attention on each side of the long rug. People were murmuring softly to one another, their clothing rustling with their subdued movements. Coughs and sneezes were stifled hastily, and yet the hall was filled with a loud din, thanks to the echoing nature of the space.

  Leethan shivered, for this vision bore a striking resemblance to the long-ago vision of Waldmir’s nephew, Granzin, ascending to the throne, which had dominated her life with Waldmir for so long. That, too, had begun in this room with an empty throne, but the people in attendance had been dressed in summer-weight clothes, with nary a hood or cloak in sight. This version of the vision took place in what looked likely to be the heart of winter, based on the array of fur-lined mantles and cloaks on display.

  Those echoing murmurs suddenly went silent, and Leethan—whose viewpoint was from somewhere above, as though she were floating in the air near the chandeliers—turned to see that a young woman had appeared in the doorway. She looked to be in her mid to late twenties, with pale skin bronzed by the sun. Thick blond hair draped loosely over surprisingly broad shoulders, and the muscles of her neck were corded like a man’s. But it was not her appearance that nearly sucked the breath out of Leethan’s lungs. It was the heavy silver crown, adorned with simple hematite cabochons, that made her feel suddenly dizzy, for she knew that crown well, having seen it many times upon Waldmir’s brow on ceremonial occasions.

  It can’t be, a shrill voice in her mind protested.

  There was currently a sovereign queen on the throne of Rhozinolm, and a sovereign princess on the throne of Women’s Well, but surely, surely such a thing was not possible in Nandel of all places! Women in Nandel didn’t even have the right to own property, for they were property. Property of their fathers or husbands or, in the case of those confined to the Abbey, of the Crown.

  If Leethan had been present in body, she would have rubbed her eyes to try to make them see more clearly. As it was, all she could do was stare in amazement as the young woman progressed down the length of the long rug. And as she passed, everyone in the audience bowed or curtsied. The woman walked with her head held high, every once in a while catching the eye of someone in the audience and nodding or smiling as she approached.

  Eventually, she climbed the dais and took a seat upon the throne, and Leethan’s disembodied view suddenly swooped down from the rafters, bringing her close enough to get a proper look at the woman’s face.

  It was impossible not to see the resemblance to Waldmir in the woman’s high, sharp cheekbones and hawklike gray eyes. And then Leethan noticed the small scar above her right eyebrow.

  “Impossible,” Leethan muttered to herself, but the scar was too distinctive to deny. Elsewhere in Seven Wells, a child who split her head open so severely that it would scar would be treated with women’s magic to preserve the purity of her skin, but in Nandel, where women’s magic was forbidden, even the sovereign prince’s daughter was forced to live with the disfigurement.

  After having recognized the scar, it became impossible for Leethan to continue denying what her vision was showing her: little Princess Elwynne, now fully grown, wearing the crown of Nandel.

  When Leethan had seen Granzin on the thron
e, he had been a man of about twenty-five or thirty years—approximately the age he was right now—so this vision clearly took place in a future that was more distant. Did it mean Granzin, too, was destined to die without an heir? But even if he did, it seemed far more likely some distant male relative would succeed rather than Waldmir’s youngest and least-favored daughter!

  The vision faded without giving Leethan any hint of an answer.

  She had triggered the vision in a search for clarity, hoping the Mother of All would show her something that would make sense of the dream and tell her what she was expected to do. And yet she now felt more muddled than ever.

  If she chose to accept Jaizal’s assertion that she had already fulfilled the Mother of All’s wishes where the dream was concerned, then she could determine two things from this vision. One was that somehow, impossibly, there was a future in which Elwynne could become the Sovereign Princess of Nandel; and the second was that—just as impossibly—it was in Leethan’s power to make that future happen.

  Weeping with a combination of frustration and exhaustion, Leethan pulled the makeshift gag from her mouth and curled up in the covers of her bed, pulling a pillow over her head as if she could hide from the world.

  Part Three

  SACRIFICES

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Delnamal leaned against the ramparts, gazing down at the palace courtyard far below. He had this high vantage point all to himself, the guards who were usually stationed here having fled obediently when he dismissed them. Technically, he had no authority to dismiss palace guards from their duties, but he had not been surprised when the men had beaten a hasty retreat without even a token protest. Draios had already made it clear he had no interest in protecting his people from Delnamal’s wrath should they invoke it.

  His heavy cloak flapped in the wind, and although none of the soldiers standing at attention below as their king addressed them looked up, he’d bet his life that every last one of them was aware of his looming presence high above.

  Draios had invited Delnamal to stand by his side when he addressed the scores of officers who had come to hear him preach his vision of the glorious war in which they were soon to engage, but Delnamal had gracefully declined. They were likely to set sail for war in two to three weeks, four at the most. All was now in readiness, and though Draios had shown himself madly deluded in his fanatical quest for glory, Delnamal remained worried that the young man might suddenly be struck by good sense. Keeping his distance as much as possible seemed the wisest course of action, lest he unwisely say something that pierced the illusions Draios spun for himself.

  Delnamal let his gaze drift away from the scene below, looking off into the east, from whence the fleet would eventually set sail. The sea was not visible from Khalwell, but Delnamal imagined he could see it in the mists of the distance. And across that sea was Aaltah. His kingdom. His home.

  The thought aroused nothing resembling sentiment in his breast, and as a gust of wind dragged his hood off his head and bared his hollow cheeks, he turned away from the view.

  There was no question he was looking forward to the endeavor. In the height of battle, he would devour more Rhokai than he had ever dreamed of, and power would buzz in his veins with an intensity he could scarcely imagine. But his thoughts were turning increasingly to what would happen after the battle, and he had as yet found no answer that felt satisfying.

  Draios would have to go, naturally. When Delnamal refused to throw himself into the Well and reverse the Curse as he’d promised, he would lose Draios’s allegiance once and for all. He was persuasive, and Draios was gullible, but there were limits.

  Killing Draios would not be difficult, not when Delnamal was glutted with extra Kai from the battle. But what would he do after that?

  “What do you want?” he asked himself softly, the wind snatching the words away before they reached even his own ears.

  Such a simple question. One that he had never before had trouble answering. Always what he wanted was that which he could not have, and most of his life had been spent cursing the injustice of it all. But now, with this incomprehensible power of his, he could have whatever he wanted…

  And he had yet to find an answer to his own question.

  Did he want to sit on the throne of Aaltah once more? Certainly that was within his reach, or would be soon. He could do away with the royal council altogether, so that he need not saddle himself with a roomful of hand-wringing, complaining old men who would try to thwart his every move. Once the people of Aaltah saw what he was, what he could do, they would be as frightened of him as the people of Khalpar, and no one would dare oppose him.

  But what was the point of being King of Aaltah? He had not enjoyed the power when he had had it, for it came with so many responsibilities and duties that it had subsumed his very life. And really, why would he want to rule a kingdom if he cared nothing about the land or the people? As weak and pathetic as he had once been, the duties of the throne had worn on him. In fact, his failures might not have wounded him so if he hadn’t cared so much about doing right by Aaltah. If he took the throne now, he would have no such cares to fuel him.

  No, Delnamal decided, shaking his head. He had no interest in sitting on the throne of Aaltah. But conquering it without keeping it seemed so…pointless. He would enjoy killing his half-siblings, gouging the Rhokai out of their chests and using their deaths to help fuel his continued life, but even that victory seemed small and mundane.

  “What do I want?” he asked again, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice, for he still could not find an answer that truly resonated.

  He sighed heavily.

  “I don’t want Aaltah,” he decided aloud, and that felt right. Although the thought of putting all that effort into conquering it and then letting whoever was left put it back together when he was gone…

  Well, that wasn’t satisfying at all.

  “Ha!” Delnamal said, the sound startling a crow that had had the nerve to settle on the ramparts nearby. Almost absently, he opened his Mindseye, reaching out and grabbing the bird’s tiny mote of Rhokai and tugging it toward him. It was of paltry satisfaction when he was now used to consuming the larger motes that resided inside human beings, but he appreciated the flicker of pleasure anyway.

  He was tying himself up in knots trying to map out the entire future of what was sure to be a very long life, but in reality there was no need to see so far into the future. He would start by conquering Aaltah, and there would be satisfaction in that. But if he wanted to conquer Aaltah and didn’t want to rule it and didn’t want to leave it for someone else to rule…well, then he would have to destroy it.

  For one moment, the shocking thought seemed to nearly stop his heart, and a helpless cry of horror tried to rise in his throat. The man he once was—the man who had loved Aaltah despite all the faults of its disloyal, ungrateful people, who had taken his duties as caretaker seriously despite his bitter resentment of the responsibility—wanted very much to scratch and claw his way up out of the deep, dark oubliette in which Delnamal had buried him. What he was considering was an atrocity of unfathomable proportions. One that could be of no possible benefit to himself.

  Delnamal shoved those childish thoughts back down into the depths of himself. It was not true that destroying Aaltah’s Well was of no benefit. He might not be eager to be saddled with the responsibilities of a throne once more, but he did want to assure himself of a long and comfortable life.

  As long as there were no witnesses to Draios’s murder, the credulous fools who so slavishly followed their deluded king could be convinced that the death—and the devastation that followed—had been a tragic accident. Even a great act of self-sacrifice on Draios’s part. And then Delnamal could lead them—and whatever desperate remnants of Aaltah’s army were willing to join them—to march on Women’s Well. Delnamal was sure he could find a way to induce his
dear sister to help him re-create whatever it was Mairahsol had done to Aaltah’s Well in the first place, and he could stock his body with another huge dose of Rhokai.

  He could live to be a hundred or more, with a legend so fearsome that no one would dare deny him anything he wanted. He could conquer all of Seven Wells, stripping those Wells of their Rhokai one at a time until he returned in triumph to Khalpar to live like a king, with all the wealth and trappings and none of the responsibilities.

  The wail of protest that had tried to break out of its confinement subsided until he could feel nothing whatsoever besides the rightness of this new, more focused plan.

  * * *

  —

  For three days, Alys had been pondering the various ways she might present her decision to her loved ones and her royal council, and none of those imaginary conversations had gone well. In the end, she had decided to start off by talking to the two people from whom she expected to receive the most spirited—and personal—resistance: Chanlix and Tynthanal.

  Wanting to keep that first conversation as private as possible, she arranged for Chanlix to come visit the royal apartments after hours, while simultaneously arranging for Tynthanal to join them via talker. Of course, they’d both asked her for some hint of what she wanted to talk about, but she’d told them only that it was personal and very important.

  Chanlix arrived first, and Alys tried to put her lady chancellor at ease by offering her a late-night aperitif. Chanlix crossed her arms over her chest and gave Alys a hard look.